


Three Nights in Kirkwall

by Brynneth



Series: A Red Promise [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynneth/pseuds/Brynneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After defeating Nuncio with Hawke's assistance, Zevran spends three nights in Kirkwall with an unexpected companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tumblr's Zevran Fan Week.

The starlit night was as muggy as any evening would be in Antiva.  If Zevran closed his eyes and imagined the acrid scent of leather tanneries, he could almost pretend that he was walking along his beloved Antivan City harbor instead of prowling the rooftops of Kirkwall’s Hightown.  There was something to be said, however, for looking down upon Kirkwall’s elite as they scurried around the dimly lit streets, furtively scouting the area for prying eyes and completely missing the amused gaze of one ex-Crow assassin lurking above.  Kirkwall was a city of secrets, bartered like stolen goods among the nobility, and Zevran enjoyed spending his evenings watching the show.

 

There was a particular spot on the crumbling shingles of a dilapidated mansion that afforded a beautiful view of the entrance to the Blooming Rose.  It had become Zevran’s favorite hangout after dark, relaxing in quiet solitude while whores plied their trade below.  He rarely visited Kirkwall, but a recent contract had brought him to the Free Marches, pursued by the Crow Master, Nuncio.  The city’s Champion, Marian Hawke, had come to his aid with her companions, and he was now free to roam the city for a few days before continuing his travels.

 

He leapt gracefully onto the roof he sought and moved stealthily to the corner he usually occupied on his visits.  A bottle of his favorite Antivan brandy was tucked securely under his arm, leaving his hands free to reach for his weapons if necessary.  He was relaxed, far too relaxed, and almost missed the sudden movement in the shadows that had him crouching in a defensive stance, one hand already clasped around the hilt of his dagger.  Moonlight reflected on snow-white hair and faint blue lines glowed as the figure approached, wielding a greatsword larger than the slight form that bore it.  Zevran stood slowly, breath calming as he brought his empty hands forward in a gesture of surrender.

 

“Ah, my lovely lyrium elf, you gave me quite the surprise!  I had not expected to find company up here among the pigeon roosts of Kirkwall.”  Fenris lowered his sword but did not retreat, narrowing his eyes at Zevran with suspicion.  Zevran attempted his best charming smile, holding up his brandy in what he hoped was an acceptable peace offering.  “I promise I come bearing only the finest liquor in Thedas, which you are welcome to taste after your most helpful assistance with Nuncio.”

 

Fenris sheathed his sword but kept Zevran at bay with an icy glare.  “You are the Crow assassin.  I did not think you would linger in Kirkwall after that incident.”

 

The _incident_ had turned into a rather nasty battle that ended in ten dead Crows.  “Well, I can assure you that I’m no longer a Crow, as Nuncio would be quick to affirm if he were still alive.  And really, how could I possibly turn down the chance to spend a few days in a city as charming as Kirkwall?”

 

Fenris snorted and returned to a ragged blanket spread across the wooden shingles.  He sat with his back to a sagging brick chimney and bent his knees while reaching for what appeared to be a bottle of red wine.  “Kirkwall is many things, but I would hardly call it _charming_.”

 

Zevran decided to take that as an invitation of sorts and dropped into a cross-legged position on the edge of the blanket.  Fenris eyed him warily but allowed it, placing his decanter against full lips and tilting his head back as he gulped greedily at the liquor.  Zevran made a show of removing the cork from his own bottle while stealing a glance at the other elf, admiring the delicious curve of Fenris’s throat, accentuated by fine white lines that absorbed the silver of moonlight.

 

“I see that I’m not alone in appreciating the finer beverages Thedas has to offer.  That is a Tevinter vintage if I’m not mistaken?”

 

“Yes.”  Fenris’s voice was deep and smooth.  _Smoke and chocolate_ , mused Zevran.  _The things he could do with speech alone_ ….  A delightful shiver fluttered down Zevran’s spine.

 

“And why are you up here tonight, my friend, instead of with the lovely Marian Hawke?”

 

“This is my home below us.  Why would I be with Hawke?”  Glittering green eyes pierced the darkness, startling in their intensity.

 

“Ah, well… I thought maybe the two of you were a couple.  You were so _very_ protective of her when we met.”

 

“She is a mage.  It is my responsibility as a warrior to protect her in battle.”  Fenris took another swig of wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly as he swallowed.  “She is not with me.  The abomination has won her favor, for a reason I cannot begin to fathom.”

 

“Ah, that is a shame, my friend.  So much beauty should not be wasted on a withering rooftop.”  Fenris gave him a sharp look, but Zevran was leaning forward and craning his head for a view of the Blooming Rose.  “At the very least, you should visit that delightful establishment down there.  I assure you the whores are of the best quality, and they would be falling over each other for a chance to bed you.”

 

Fenris made a sound halfway between a hiss and a growl.  “Whores do not interest me.  I know what it is to be used, to be forced to please another.  A whore is just another slave.”

 

Zevran cocked his head, observing the sudden tension that coiled within the other elf.  _An ex-slave, then.  One in which bitterness has nearly consumed his soul._

“There are so many levels of slavery in Thedas, are there not?”  Zevran ran one finger absently around the rim of his bottle.  “In Tevinter, they actually _call_ them slaves.  In Ferelden and the Free Marches, they are mages.  In Antiva, we name them Crows, and people ignore the gilded cages and clipped wings.  Power is such a powerful cloak to hide behind.”

 

“You were a slave?”  Fenris darted him a look of sheer disbelief that made Zevran chuckle, but not with mirth.

 

“I was sold to the Crows at the age of seven.  It was hardly an easy life, but who can argue with the opportunity to kill people after bedding them?”  Zevran reached up and loosened the ties to his braids, tossing his head to free his shoulder-length, golden hair.  “Unfortunately, it grows rather tiresome when it is done at another’s command.  I _do_ so enjoy the right to choose who I bed and who I kill.”  Zevran noted with interest that Fenris’s gaze lingered just a moment too long on the way Zevran’s hair brushed against his shoulders.

 

“There are other rights more important than killing and bedding.” 

 

“Ah, but what else can give you such an intense feeling of completion?  Tell me you have never felt a certain satisfaction from seeing an enemy dead at your hands or felt the glowing rapture of spilling your seed.”

 

It was too dark to see if Fenris’s face lit with a rosy flush, but the slight edge in his voice spoke volumes.  “Killing an enemy is a necessity, not a pleasure.  And I do not… spill.”

 

“Truly?”  Zevran rocked back on his haunches and pulled his knees to his chest.  “You are a virgin?”

 

“I do not… know.  I have no memory from before the lyrium was burned into my flesh, and there has not been time since to seek… pleasure.”  Fenris cleared his throat with a rumble and took another drink.  “I fail to see the relevance of this conversation.”

 

“My friend, pleasure is _always_ relevant.  Life is hard, is it not?  If there is an opportunity for a moment of gratification, why should you not take it?”  Zevran allowed his gaze to travel over Fenris’s lithe, powerful form.  “You are quite the attractive man, if I may say so.  You should take advantage of this.”

 

Fenris shifted with a snort and turned away to look down at the street below.  Zevran smiled to himself and quaffed the remainder of his brandy.  _Time to let ideas simmer and change the conversation_.

 

“So… now that you are a free man, what is your desire?” he asked Fenris.

 

“I am not free yet.”  Zevran saw Fenris’s fingers twitch convulsively around the wine bottle.  “My master still hunts me.  Until he is dead, I am still a slave.”

 

“In his view or yours?  My friend, slavery is an institution of the mind.  If you believe you are still a slave, you will be.”  Zevran tapped his head with a slim finger.  “To be truly free, you must first accept that you _are_.  No human, dwarf, or elf can tell you otherwise.” 

 

Starlight glittered within eyes the color of spring grass, and Zevran knew he had won Fenris’s attention.  Moving slowly, he approached Fenris with all the care of a child approaching a wild beast.  Crouching in front of the warrior, Zevran reached out tentatively to touch Fenris’s knee.

 

“Old wounds fester and infect if left untouched, _mi amigo_.  You are a unique and exquisite creature, but you surround yourself with stone molded by hate.  Let the wall crumble and enjoy life while you can.  Only then will you be free.”  Zevran allowed his fingers to stroke just once over skin covered by taut, gray leggings.  The night hid all but Fenris’s eyes and hair, but Zevran felt the twitch beneath his hand and smiled.

 

Straightening, he stretched languidly and raised his face to the moon.  “The night grows late, and I must go get some rest.  Even assassins require sleep, I’m afraid.”  He offered Fenris a slight bow.  “I thank you for the enlightening conversation, my friend.  I will be in Kirkwall for a few days more, so perhaps we may meet again.”  Turning, Zevran melted back into the darkness, a ghost as much as an assassin.

 

Fenris stared into the night long after Zevran had disappeared.  The former Crow had woken something inside, a flicker that had no name but burned with a persistent heat.  It tickled at his mind until he shook his head roughly, struggling to clear what he did not understand.  Lethargy weighed heavy on his limbs, and he struggled to his feet, swaying from alcohol-induced dizziness.  As he began to descend from the roof to his bedroom window, his eyes shifted up to the moon, and he wondered why the pale glow reminded him so much of a similar gleam from within amber eyes.

 


	2. Second Night

Zevran’s second night in Kirkwall was as humid and hot as the first.  This time, he toted a small backpack that fit snugly against his side and did not hinder his ability to draw his daggers.  He had spent a pleasant morning in the marketplace before retiring to his room at the Hanged Man for an afternoon siesta.  The atmosphere at the Hanged Man was jovial and promised an evening of delightful conversation and cards, but he had a different mission tonight.

 

The brooding, handsome elf with the intricate white tattoos intrigued Zevran.  He had always been drawn to people who carried their pain like heavy-plate armor coated with thorns that turned inward and buried themselves in sensitive flesh.  Perhaps this was due to the fact that Zevran had once been like this also, wearing his anger and defiance like an emblem.  Fortunately, he had learned at a young age that maintaining this kind of shield was self-destructive, and he had chosen humor instead. 

 

Zevran also had the empathic skill of sensing pain in others and was adept at drawing out the soul’s poison with little more than soft words and a knowing touch.  The Crow Masters had often paired him with other assassins who were in danger of collapsing under the smothering walls of despair.  It was a process that healed Zevran as much as his partner, reminding him always of the importance of keeping one’s head above the darkness that waited to swallow the heart.  After Rinna’s death, he had almost dived into the night headfirst, and it had taken the efforts of a Fereldan Warden to not only save Zevran but to restore a simple necessity.  Hope.

 

The assassin emerged from the shadows onto the same mansion he had visited the previous night, scanning the roof for silver hair and forest-green eyes.  He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he saw a dark form shift by the chimney, a silent acknowledgment that his presence was known.  Zevran hadn’t been certain that Fenris would return, and the lanky silhouette made him a little giddier than he would have cared to admit.  _And no drawn sword this time.  Progress!_

“Good evening, my friend.  I hope you do not mind enduring my presence for another evening?  It is just so much cooler up here where the wind blows so freely.”  His only response was a grunt, but Zevran considered it a victory and seated himself slightly closer to Fenris than he had the previous night.

 

He could see Fenris better here and looked him over appreciatively from under lowered eyelashes while pulling a decanter from his backpack.  The warrior had exchanged his bristly armor for a black v-neck tunic and simple matching linen trousers.  As always, he was barefoot, the toughened skin exhibiting more of the enticing tattoos that climbed like vines up a surprisingly delicate ankle and disappeared under the frayed hem of his pants.  More of the same white lines trailed from his chin to dip down his throat and swirl along what chest was visible above the shirt.  _Beautiful and deadly.  Such a potent combination._

An empty bottle rested at Fenris’s side, and Zevran withdrew two goblets from his pack along with the red wine he had purchased that morning.

 

“I could not impose on you for a second night without bringing something in exchange for your gracious acceptance of my intrusionon your home.  Would you care to share some Antivan red with me?  It is not quite as dry as those made in Tevinter, but I think you’ll enjoy the spicy flavor.”  Without waiting for a reply, Zevran gracefully poured the wine into both glasses and handed one to Fenris.  The other elf reached for it silently, and Zevran allowed one slender finger to casually slide against the back of Fenris’s hand.  He watched carefully for any sign of a flinch, but Fenris seemed unbothered by the subtle caress.

 

“Thank you.”  The deep voice was gruff and hesitant, obviously unused to offering any form of gratitude, but this was to be expected.  Zevran could remember his own surprise when the Warden had offered him the gift of Antivan boots.  Slaves were _not_ given presents… were not offered _kindnesses_ that acknowledged their presence as being anything more than a useful piece of furniture.  Compassion and generosity were for sentient beings, not for servants for whom duty required obedience rather than intellect.

 

Zevran gazed down at the Blooming Rose while Fenris took an exploratory sip of the wine.

 

“And how goes business in our highly-esteemed establishment tonight?”  He twirled the stem of his goblet under his nose, savoring the scent of cinnamon and cloves that reminded him so much of his beloved Antiva.

 

Fenris took a larger swallow of the wine, closing his eyes in evident satisfaction.  “This is… not bad.”  He spared a derisive look for the brothel below.  “Two templars entered earlier.  They had removed their armor, but their clothes still bore the templar emblem and did little to hide their identity.”

 

Zevran chuckled and raised his goblet toward the Rose in salute.  “May they find delight in corrupting the Order!”  He tilted his head back and drained the glass in one gulp, licking his lips afterward with half-closed eyes.  “This is an especially good vintage, is it not?  It reminds me of the delightful smells and sights of the Antivan marketplace:  stalls of herbal soaps, ripe melons, and silken dresses interspersed with the occasional stealthy pickpocket.  If you’re lucky, you might get to witness a stunning assassination by a Crow of high caliber.  The perfect end to a perfect day!”  Fenris merely raised an eyebrow, and Zevran grinned as he poured them both a second glass.  “Come, my friend, do you have no place in memory that you can remember with fondness?”

 

The silence stretched out long enough for Zevran to empty his goblet before Fenris finally spoke.  “On Seheron, there was a beach on the northern side of the island that was more rock than sand.  No ships dared to land there; the water was treacherous and filled with fury.  All day long, the waves crashed mercilessly against the jagged boulders that bordered the beach as if they were struggling to tear down every last defense the earth had to offer.  The wind howled and the surf roared, but those rocks have stood for centuries beyond memory, and they stand still.”  Fenris drained his cup in one smooth draught.  “I would sit for hours and observe nature’s battle.  It brought peace when there was none to be had.”

 

It was the most Zevran had heard Fenris speak, and the warrior’s words resonated with something buried deep inside the assassin, a part of himself he usually kept hidden beneath smooth assurance and wide smiles.  _This is no mere ex-slave.  He sees more than he knows, and he carries a strength beyond physical.  How is it that he is alone?_

Zevran reached into his pack and withdrew a round paper package, which he opened to reveal a bunch of burgundy grapes still attached to their vine.  “It has been long since I indulged in fruit from the delightful vineyards of Rivain.  I simply couldn’t pass by the stall selling them in the marketplace today.”  He tore the vine in half and offered it to Fenris, who accepted it without any hesitation this time.  Zevran watched Fenris pluck a grape and pop it into his mouth, a small drop of juice forming at the corner as he bit down.  The assassin ruminated briefly of how it would feel to lick it off, to taste pouty lips as well as fruit.

 

"If you are no longer a Crow, what is it you do?"  The voice like dark chocolate interrupted the comfortable silence, and Zevran actually twitched with surprise.  It was the first time Fenris had spoken without being prompted.

 

"Ah... well, the first few years after the Blight ended, I travelled a great deal.  There were sights to see, cultures to explore, and Crows to dodge.  They don't particularly care for deserters, you see."  Zevran smiled fondly as if remembering a favortite crotchety grandmother.  "After some time, I grew weary of assassins always interrupting my pleasures and decided to return the courtesy, as it were.  Three years of playing cat-and-mouse finally convinced them that truly, I'm not worth their trouble.  Occasionally, some ambitious upstart will test himself in the hope of capturing the infamous Zevran Arainai, but he inevitably fails.  Such a sad waste of young talent, no?"

 

"Hmm."  Fenris appeared unimpressed, but Zevran was undaunted.

 

"My reputation is well-known among certain people, and I continue to accept lucrative contracts to support my lifestyle.  Once an assassin, always an assassin."  Zevran quaffed the remainder of his wine, licking the last taste of cinnamon from his lips with relish.  He pretended not to notice certain mossy eyes watching him intently.

 

"Do you not tire of killing?"

 

"It is all I know, my friend.  Well... in addition to the glorious art of seduction.  I received extensive training in that also.  Sex, in all its forms, is not always as easy as it seems, especially if pleasure takes a different direction than you might like.  But that depends on the whim of your assigned partner, and one must be prepared to endure whatever delights he or she might prefer." Suddenly realizing that the conversation was entering sensitive territory, Zevran fell silent, lying back to gaze at the stars.

 

"You would use seduction even if it was undesirable on your part?"

 

 _Mierda.  The wine has loosened my tongue too much._   "You do what you are told in the Guild.  Sex is a means of making your mark vulnerable.  If sometimes it should require... reluctant submission, you endure it until you can make the kill.  After a while, it is nothing."  Zevran kept his eyes fixed on the night sky.  It was unwise to look directly in another's eyes when speaking a lie.  Not that he wasn't good at lying, but Fenris was quite perceptive.

 

"It is not... _nothing_."  Glittering green faded into the darkness as Fenris turned his head sharply away.  One hand clenched briefly, then loosened as if responding to a command.

 

A flicker of anger stirred within the shadows of Zevran's heart.  _So, he suffered that as well._   He did not pause to wonder why Fenris's past should bother him more than his own.

 

"You speak true, my friend," he said softly.  "But sometimes one must hold on to what steers him straight until the time comes for vengeance."  He could feel the heat burning in his eyes, but he did not try to hide it.  _Zevran Arainai does not cower like a whipped dog but bides his time until that perfect moment to pay his debts_.

 

"That time will come," said Fenris.  No fury colored his words; they were spoken with a dispassionate self-assurance.  Zevran had seen what the lyrium-empowered elf could do.  He did not envy Fenris's enemy.

 

"I wish I could be there to see it."  No flirtation, that, and he met Fenris's surprised gaze with a calm one of his own.

 

Zevran rolled smoothly to a sitting position and gently placed the empty goblets back in his pack.  "The night grows late, and I have farther to go to reach my room this evening.  Or is it morning, now?"

 

Fenris watched him secure the backpack once more against his side.  "You stay in a different place each day?"

 

"Alas, the life of a hunted assassin," laughed Zevran.  "It is best to always stay one stealthy step ahead of the enemy, no?  Nuncio has disappeared from the story, but there will be others."  He flashed Fenris a toothy smile.  "What can I say?  Everyone wants to dance with the famous Zevran Arainai."

 

Fenris raised one eyebrow.  "In that case, I wish for you a partner with two left feet."  

 

Zevran blinked slowly in astonishment before throwing back his head in pleased laughter.  He bent his knees and dropped down to rest on the balls of his boots.  "You have a saucy tongue, _mi amigo_.  This, I like."  He reached out slowly to brush back the shaggy locks of white hair with a single finger, tenderly caressing the smooth skin of Fenris's forehead.   When Fenris did not flinch but returned his gaze steadily, Zevran smiled and brushed his finger across one cheek as he withdrew it.

  



Standing, he adjusted his pack and daggers.  "I bid you good evening, my friend.  As before, your company was most entertaining.  Perhaps I shall drop by again tomorrow."  He stepped to the edge of the roof and leapt to the adjoining house, merging into the shadows beyond.

 

Fenris stretched stiffly and climbed down to his bedroom window, sliding into the dank room dimly lit by the fire in the sooty hearth.  As he collapsed onto the sagging bed, he allowed his fingers to touch the cheek Zevran had stroked earlier, retracing the warmth that had brought goose bumps to skin that was not cold.  He dreamed of Antiva that night:  of grapes and brandy, of brightly-colored dresses and doublets, of sun-baked bricks beneath his bare feet, of three sinuous tattoos adorning a dusky cheek, framed by cornsilk hair that fluttered wildly in a salty breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, zevgirl, for your help!


	3. Chapter 3

Rain beat a soothing rhythm on the wooden roof above, accompanied by a damp breeze that blew in from the broken window and cooled the room to a much lower temperature than was customary for summer in Kirkwall. After the past week of sweltering humid heat, the refreshing change was welcome, and Fenris had lowered the curtain he normally used to cover the window. Hawke had offered to pay for a new glass windowpane, but Fenris had refused, as he did all suggestions to repair the crumbling remains of the old mansion he called home. Truthfully, it was more of a temporary shelter that provided a bed, although the past several years spent squatting here belied the term ‘temporary’. Nevertheless, it seemed wasteful to provide any kind of upkeep to a building that held no special meaning for him.

Fenris had lit a fire in the hearth to set off the gray melancholy of the rain, but it did little to improve his mood. He sat slumped in one of the straight-backed chairs at the scarred wooden table, grimly sipping Tevinter wine he had retrieved from the cellar. The far corner of the bedroom was piled with torn trousers that Hawke had generously donated to Fenris, and they served the necessary purpose of soaking up the water that dripped from the stained, sagging ceiling. Fenris glared at the offending cracked plaster, at each liquid drop that swelled slowly and then fell to dampen the rumpled cloth below.

The leaky ceiling bothered him no more than the decaying body in the foyer or the numerous cobwebs that decorated the corners of the rooms with intricate silk patterns. They were merely the characteristics of his chosen abode, which oddly reflected the condition of his current life as well. It was the rain that made him restless and drove him to gouge angry lines in the table with the steel fingertips of his gauntlets. The downpour kept him inside instead of on the rooftop where he had wished to spend his evening. If a certain assassin had chanced to return, he would not have objected, but there was little chance of that now. Not that it _mattered_ if Zevran returned, but Fenris wouldn’t have minded.

A rattle from outside the window brought him to his feet and reaching for his sword, which lay nearby on the table. Adrenaline surged, lighting his tattoos, and he instinctively reached for the Fade, phasing into the transparency of lyrium ghost. _Danarius, let it be Danarius._ Longing and dread mixed with fear and fury, and sweat beaded his brow beneath the rough fringe of his hair. He wanted this _over_ ; he wanted to be _free_.

As the lithe form dropped through the window, he moved swiftly to grab the back of the intruder’s neck, pulling back from the Fade enough to solidify his hand, gauntlet digging into the rough fabric of the hooded cloak while his other hand raised the heavy greatsword high to strike. Hissing with anger, he yanked the hood back and wound his fist into golden hair, pulling the figure toward him before finally registering the bronzed face with amber eyes and sinuous tattoos lining a delicate cheekbone. Shock pulled him back abruptly from the protection of the Fade, but the lyrium markings continued to glow with a ready menace as he slowly lowered his sword.

“Truly, I do not mind a bit of rough play, _mi amigo_ , but shouldn’t we wait until I at least remove this soaked cloak?” Zevran seemed remarkably calm, if a little breathless. He made no move to step away from Fenris’s grasp but remained carefully still, almost pliant. Fenris became startlingly aware of the softness of Zevran’s hair within his fist, the fullness of slightly parted lips turned up to him, the glimmer of laughter in the warm eyes returning his gaze. It took a little more effort than it should have to loosen his grip and step away from the assassin, whose cloak and boots were leaving a puddle on the wooden floor.

“I might have killed you. Could you not have announced your presence?” Irritation hoarsened Fenris’s growl.

Zevran chuckled as he removed the cloak with a shrug and laid it on the floor before the fire to dry. “Sometimes, I prefer to make a dramatic entrance. It adds a little _spice_ to an encounter, yes? And I must say that witnessing that delightful display of physical luminescence made the danger _so_ worthwhile.” Zevran allowed his eyes to rove over Fenris’s still-illuminated markings appreciatively.

The warrior snorted and returned to his chair, drawing his power back into himself and allowing his tattoos’ glow to fade. As he settled into an alert, straight-backed posture, he watched Zevran remove his pack and place it on the table. The assassin withdrew the customary bottle of wine along with a flat, rectangular package carefully wrapped in parchment and tied with red string. His hair had become mussed from Fenris’s rough treatment, and he casually reached up and yanked out the leather band holding it back, freeing silky locks that reached to the bottom of his shoulder blades. Satisfied, he draped himself over another of the table’s chairs and offered Fenris a crooked smile.

“I was disappointed with the sour weather this evening, but then I thought, what is a little rain compared to the satisfaction of good company? I sincerely apologize for startling you, however. Perhaps you will allow me to offer a simple gift as reparation?” Zevran wrapped slender fingers around the parcel and extended it to Fenris, who accepted it gingerly, as if it were a combustion bomb. “I promise it contains no poison, trap, or explosive,” said Zevran, with one eyebrow lifted in amusement.

Fenris turned the package over, curiously examining it before untying the string and setting it aside on the table. The parchment crinkled as he unwrapped it to reveal a solid, dark brown tablet with indentations that separated it into small squares. The bar was smooth and when Fenris lifted it to his nose, it had a faint, sugary smell. He glanced at Zevran with a furrowed brow.

“ _Mi amigo_ , have you never tasted the heaven that is chocolate?” Zevran eyes widened with astonishment.

“I have… heard of it, but slaves are not allowed to partake of exotic delicacies.” Fenris gazed down at the bar of chocolate with new interest, unconsciously running the tip of his tongue across his lips. Zevran felt a certain pride in his restraint; he very much wished to kiss those moist lips.

“Please, allow me.” Zevran reached over and took the bar, breaking off one of the squares and handing it back to Fenris. The warrior raised it to his mouth and carefully bit off a tiny chunk, swallowing it immediately.

“No, no, my friend.” Zevran shook his head in exasperation. “Chocolate is like sex: it is sensual, it is divine. It is meant to be _savored_ , not chewed like meat.” He broke off another square and placed it directly on his tongue. Pressing his lips together, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the chocolate slowly dissolve while relishing the sweetness. When he reopened his eyes, he saw Fenris copying his move, placing the square delicately in his mouth.

“Mmmm.” Fenris’s voice rumbled deeply with satisfaction as he allowed the taste of chocolate to tantalize his taste buds. “It _is_ good. I can see now why the magisters enjoyed it so much.”

Zevran snapped the bar in half and handed one piece to Fenris. “It is made in Antiva and Rivain, where trees grow fruit that contain cocoa seeds. These seeds are ground into a powder, which forms the base from which chocolate is made. Outside of these two countries, chocolate is more difficult to find and fetches a high price in the marketplace.” He smiled and took a sip of wine. “Some say that chocolate is an aphrodisiac.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Is this why you have brought it here? Are you attempting to seduce me, assassin?” He kept his tone carefully neutral, exhibiting neither encouragement nor rejection.

Zevran placed his wine slowly back on the table. His gaze never wavered from Fenris as he spoke. “And if I were? Would you be offended?”

“No.” Fenris’s response actually surprised him, and he placed another piece of chocolate in his mouth to cover his reaction. After a moment, he continued. “I would be… _perplexed_.”

“And why is that, my friend?”

“Is it not true that you carry a certain reputation? It is said that you are a master of seduction and that you often bed your marks. You are a notorious flirt, and your bed is never cold. At least, these are the words I hear.”

“So you have been asking about me?” Zevran’s smile widened before twisting into a wry smirk. “Well, I will not deny who I am or how I was trained to perform. An assassin learns to use whatever assets he has, and humans have always desired elves, have they not? If I should happen to discover pleasure in my assignments or on my travels, why should I not take advantage? The life of a Crow is difficult and dangerous; you find happiness when you can.” Zevran stared down into his bottle of wine, idly twirling it in his hand.

“You are no longer a Crow.”

“Sì, you are correct. As an assassin grows older, he finds that his bed is cold, even when there is another body to warm it, and his pleasure becomes a hollow thing with little meaning.” Zevran raised his head to gaze into the fire. “An assassin is always alone, but he could wish that it were not so. There comes a time when a person wishes for more than a fleeting connection and single night beneath scented sheets.”

Fenris gulped a large swallow of wine to drown the echo of longing that struggled to meet Zevran’s words. Was it possible that he understood Zevran in a fashion that was deeper than words?

“But you asked if the chocolate was meant as a tool of seduction. I assure you that it was not intended as anything more than a gift. After all, you have been most tolerant of my presence these past three nights.” Zevran leaned forward. “You have some chocolate on your mouth. May I?”

He reached out and ran his thumb gently against a dark smudge at the corner of Fenris’s lips. The warrior’s eyes closed briefly at the familiar touch but he did not pull away. Zevran smiled and placed his thumb into his mouth, licking sensuously at the smeared chocolate and purposefully ignoring the piercing gaze from Fenris. He heard the grating sound of metal on wood, however, as Fenris convulsively dug into the table with his steel-tipped fingers. _Brasca, but I want this man… to see what is inside the fortress he has built around himself. But now is not yet the time._

With a reluctant sigh, Zevran stood and replaced his backpack against his side. “I must go now, _mi amigo_. I took a contract before coming to the Free Marches, and now I must go and complete it while the Crows scurry amongst themselves to find a new assassin to hunt me down.” A feral grin flitted across his face, and Fenris could almost feel sorry for any Crow that tried to pursue Zevran. Almost.

“You are leaving Kirkwall?”

“Sì.” Zevran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I think perhaps I shall return soon. Kirkwall has proven most _interesting_ , and I would very much like to know it better. Will you mind if I drop by again, my ferocious, glowing elf?”

“No.” Fenris stood and looked as if he would say more, his hands twitching restlessly, and that in itself, Zevran had learned, was its own language when Fenris found it difficult to speak. He remained by the table, however, staring at the floor with a frown, eyes hidden beneath the shaggy locks of silver hair. Zevran felt a twinge of disappointment but donned his cloak and headed for the window.

“Until next time then. Take care, my friend.” He only got as far as placing his hands on the window sill before strong hands grabbed him from behind and flung him against the wall between the window and the fireplace. Heat pressed against his flattened body as Fenris pinned him to the wall with hands outstretched, and Zevran could _feel_ the other elf’s heart beating rapidly. Fenris rested his forehead against Zevran’s for several tense moments, just breathing, struggling for control over something he couldn’t quite understand. Sensing his turmoil, Zevran raised his chin and parted his lips slightly, neither pushing the encounter nor retreating. Simply waiting.

Control snapped and even with the close contact, Fenris seemed to surge forward, lips melding with Zevran’s, tongue sliding within wet heat. Zevran released a soft moan of pleasure and reached up to clench Fenris’s hair within his fist, lightly scraping the warrior’s scalp as he pulled Fenris even closer. Growling in response, Fenris tightened his grip on Zevran’s wrists and deepened the kiss, hips instinctively thrusting forward. Zevran arched against him, reveling in the contact and marveling that Fenris, a self-proclaimed _novice_ , could elicit this much desire with a mere kiss. _He has done this before… before the tattoos perhaps?_

Fenris clearly thought the same, for when he finally broke away, confusion clouded his desire-glazed eyes. Zevran stroked the back of his neck in a light caress, conveying reassurance and attempting to soothe the other elf. They remained like this for a few seconds before Fenris finally stepped back with obvious reluctance.

“I....” Overwhelmed, Fenris fell silent, but the furrowed brow spoke volumes. Zevran wisely pressed no further, choosing instead to end the moment with a light touch on Fenris’s cheek.

“I will return for you, _caro_. This, I promise.” He pressed a chaste kiss to the curve of Fenris’s jaw before sliding over the window sill and into the night, his cloak melting into the shadows.

Fenris stood at the window for a long time afterwards, just breathing in the fresh scent of rain. Even though he was protected from the downpour, he felt strangely cleansed and… _alive_. It wasn’t until he laid down on his bed at last that he finally realized the source of the newfound lightness in his soul. Hope.

###

Kirkwall burned. Screams rent the air as civilians scurried like rats seeking shelter. No one paid any heed to the bloodstained elf with white markings as he sprinted through Hightown. War smothered the air like smoke, and the will to live far outweighed the niceties of etiquette at times like this.

Fenris had little time. The templars had allowed Hawke and her companions to leave the Gallows, shocked by the downfall of their Knight Commander. Cullen would undoubtedly rally them, however, and Hawke intended to flee quickly before retribution took its toll. They had all separated temporarily, each returning home to gather whatever they saw fit to pack. There was no telling if or when they would be able to return, and Isabela waited impatiently on her new ship for their arrival. Fenris needed to hurry.

He held little in the way of belongings, having never intended Kirkwall to become his permanent home. In fact, he could think of nothing he even wished to bring, save a few books and some extra clothes. There was a greater purpose to his returning; one last thing he needed to do before accompanying Hawke to whatever future awaited them in the mage rebellion.

It still astonished him that he had chosen to follow Hawke and Anders. He had long despised the mage cause, countering every point Anders brought forth in his long-winded speeches for mage rights. If it hadn’t been for Hawke, he would have left, leaving Anders to his fate after the destruction of the Chantry. He owed Hawke, however, for his freedom and his revenge against Danarius, and above all else, Fenris knew where his allegiance lay.

He took the stairs two at a time, brushing impatiently at cobwebs for what he knew would be the last time. The tiny room that had served as both dining room and bedroom was cold and dark, the fireplace full of scattered ashes. His eyes searched the room frantically as he darted from corner to corner… _where_ had he put it? Finally, in the far corner of the hearth’s mantle, he saw it, the bright red color catching the corner of his eye.

Moments later, he left at last, a ragged backpack secured firmly beside his sheathed greatsword. Without a backward glance, he hurried down the steps, jumping neatly over the mushrooms in the foyer and closed the front door behind him with a soft click.

The house lay shrouded in silence, left to settle into neglect and desolation, a haven for rats and spiders and flourishing fungi. Upstairs in the abandoned bedroom, an empty Antivan wine bottle rested in its new spot on the mantle, a single red string tied neatly around its neck, a last gesture of defiant faith in a place that echoed of brooding bitterness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I left a cliffhanger, but there will be more to come! Thanks to zevgirl for all her help.


End file.
